


The Gift of Oneself

by mydogwatson



Series: Once Upon A Time At Xmas [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Home at last, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5505620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's journey has finally ended in the one place he wanted to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift of Oneself

**Author's Note:**

> Thank the gods a little happiness.

You know very well that love  
is, above all, the gift of oneself.

-Jean Anouilh

 

Another year gone by.

Another Xmas approaching.

It was not the same as last year, John acknowledged that freely. For one thing, he was out of that horrid little flat and back in Baker Street, where he had been for nearly six months now. Most of those who knew him considered that relocation to signify a giant step forward. He, in their view, had accepted the past, mourned it [albeit for longer than most thought really necessary] and was now, finally, moving on.

Moving past the ghost of Sherlock Holmes.

John did not disabuse them of that notion. Nor did he cater to it.

The suggestion by Mrs Hudson that perhaps they should do a little redecorating and clear out some of the mess, once and for all, instead of just having her dust over it once a week, was politely but firmly rejected. He did not tell her that the only way he could stay here was to be surrounded by the proof of his previous life. It was all essential. Getting rid of it all might actually banish the ghost and that would be like losing Sherlock all over again.

When Lestrade occasionally tried to get him to come out for a pint to discuss some baffling case, John never said yes. What would be the point? These days he was just a locum at a nearby surgery, not a detective’s assistant or colleague or whatever the hell he had once been.

And when his amiable co-workers at the surgery tried to include him in their regular pub quiz nights or, even worse, to set him up with a lovely nurse or a charming teacher, John would just smile and shake his head.

He made no real explanation to anyone. No one would have understood that the truth was he had not finished mourning, would never be done with missing Sherlock. John was not entirely self-unaware and so he understood that part---a large part, perhaps---of what he still grieved was what might have been. The lost potential for what they might have had.

Despite what others thought, John knew that the only real moving on he had done was to accept that this was his life now. And that it was enough.

Pathetic, was his sister’s succinct criticism.

He didn’t care.

 

It had not been until the 20th, while passing all the decorated windows, that John realised that Xmas was so close. The realisation made him sigh. Too late to plan a getaway, as he had done last year, which was fine, as he had no wish to repeat that experience.  
As he strolled along, thinking about it, John decided that he would be fine on his own in 221B over the holiday, eating Chinese and watching crap telly.

 

The plan had not changed by Xmas Eve. The only question was, what exactly did he want to pick up at the Chinese place on the corner? He was thinking about that important question so deeply that he walked right into a street person who was carefully searching through the contents of a rubbish bin. “Uh, sorry,” John mumbled, trying to sidestep his accidental victim.

“Oi, watch where’re you’re going,” the man growled. At the same time, he kept shuffling, seemingly on purpose right into John’s path.

“Right, right, my fault entirely,” John said, wondering if he should hand the guy a fiver, especially given the season. And then John broke one of the cardinal rules of city life and looked right into the eyes of the stranger.

Immediately, the world tilted on its axis.

Some relevant facts:

One could pull a ragged knit cap over short, bizarrely ginger curls.

One could cover a lanky yet powerful body with a filthy, too-large parka.

And one could even camouflage porcelain skin with a scruffy three-day beard and plenty of dirt.

But unless one resorted to coloured contact lenses or something, there was no way that John Watson would not immediately recognise that silver-green and so brilliant gaze. Looking at those eyes, he could not then miss the cheekbones just below, despite the whiskers and the dirt.

He did not know what to do next, although passing out seemed one possible reaction. Before he could make up his mind exactly, the dead man leaned closer. “Carry on to Baker Street,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I will join you shortly, John.”

It was a clear indication of John’s mental state that he only nodded, as if that were a perfectly reasonable suggestion, and set off at a brisk pace towards home.

*

As desperate as he was to do so, Sherlock did not follow John immediately.

Just their brief conversation over a rubbish bin had stirred something inside him, emotions that he had ruthlessly tried to suppress, had necessarily kept dormant ever since the moment he stepped off the roof at St. Barts. The moment which had damned him to his own place in purgatory.

That moment. He told himself time and again that he had only imagined hearing John’s anguished shout as he fell downwards more quickly than he thought possible, but that did not stop the sound from haunting his dreams endlessly.

Still in character, Sherlock spent another few moments shifting through the contents of the bin before shuffling away. Moran was not expected in London for two more days, but it would have been the height of foolishness to get careless now. Consequently, it was a ridiculously convoluted route he took to Baker Street. When he got there, the door had been left unlocked and he knew from Mycroft that Mrs Hudson was at her sister’s for the holiday. So he just opened the door and went inside. As simple as that. He needed to stop just for a moment and inhale the scent of a place he had wondered if he would ever see again.

Then, with the new caution that had become second nature, he locked the door and began to carefully climb those seventeen steps.

When he walked into the flat, he found John sitting on the sofa, stiffly upright, hands on his knees as he stared at the door. When Sherlock entered, John just kept staring. Finally, he took a deep breath. “You’re real,” he said in a small voice that had no business belonging to John Watson. Sherlock felt a stab of guilt for being the one to cause it.

“Quite real,” Sherlock replied, still standing just inside the door. He pulled off the disgusting coat and knit hat, dropping them to the floor.

“You’re not dead.”

“I am not.” Sherlock bit down on the ‘obviously’ that wanted to emerge.

A faint smile brushed across John’s mouth. “Obviously.”

“I can explain,” Sherlock said.

“Of course you can.” John shook his head. “Sit down, will you please? You look ready to collapse.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock lied.

John just looked at him until finally Sherlock walked over and more or less fell into the oh-so-familiar contours of the sofa. John scooted closer and studied him carefully, before lifting a hand and resting it against Sherlock’s filthy face. Sherlock tried not to fall into that sensation as he had into the sofa.

John’s thumb was moving against his cheekbone; was it almost a caress? Sherlock thought that maybe it was. He wanted to close his eyes and just feel, but he also wanted to look at John, to examine the new lines around his eyes, the new grey hair at his temples. Were they both his fault? He rather thought so.

“Did you wait just so you could arrive on Xmas Eve?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head at the ridiculous question. “Of course not. I didn’t wait a single second. As soon as it was safe---” He paused, frowning, “Well, as safe as it can be. There is still one…”

“Shut up,” John said with a sudden fierceness. “Later for that.” Suddenly he reached out and pulled Sherlock into an awkward sitting hug.

Sherlock was so surprised that at first he just sat there. Finally, he lifted his arms and held onto John rather fiercely.

“I missed you so much,” John nearly whispered.

“And I missed you,” Sherlock said. “It was very…lonely without my blogger.”

John moved just slightly and then his lips were pressing into Sherlock’s hair.

“I thought you might hit me,” Sherlock said.

“Still might,” John replied. “But not tonight. Tonight is Xmas Eve. You are going to take shower, shave, put on something clean. Then we are going to eat Chinese and tell one another stories in front of the fire.”

Sherlock was afraid that he might actually cry, which would be fairly humiliating. He made a hitched, gasping sound, but then only nodded. “John…I…” He had no idea what to say.

“Shh,” John murmured. “We both have things to say. But right now…I asked you not to be dead. I begged you to come back. And now you have. One more miracle, just for me. Everything else will fall into place.” He pulled back and smiled. “Go shower. You smell and not in a good way. I’ll order the food.” He leaned in and kissed Sherlock again, this time on the cheek.

Sherlock just looked at him for a moment, then nodded and stood. He paused before turning to walk away, “John,” he said. The words were right there, ready to emerge after such a long time of keeping them inside. But still he hesitated.

“What, Sherlock?”

“Happy Xmas.” It was not what he had intended---wanted---to say. But he rather thought the true meaning had been understood.

John nodded. “And to you.” 

They smiled at one another. John stood as well and wrapped his arms around Sherlock again. Sherlock bent his head and kissed the top of John’s head. “Happy Xmas,” he said again and this time his voice cracked just a bit.

They stood there for a very long time, holding on to one another fiercely and listening to Xmas carols being played too loudly by the married ones next door.

**Author's Note:**

> Tomorrow: By Just Exchange


End file.
